Giving a dog a bad name

Like many people, I have what used to be known as a Telecom Phonewatch alarm system at home. It's now an Eircom Phonewatch system and I was relieved to get a letter recently advising me that Eircom representatives would be calling to rebrand the outside box.

The whole point of Eircom's new name was to reflect the fact that it is responding to today's fast-moving economy. Telecom was no longer merely a telephone company. And until I got the letter, I was worried that Phonewatch's competitors - in this case burglars - might interpret the continuation of the old logo on the box as a sign of the company's inability to embrace change.

This highlights the importance of corporate identity. So that while I may continue to be depressed by the performance of the small number of Eircom shares which, combined with a six per cent holding in a greyhound, make up my investment portfolio, I am not one of these short-sighted individuals who questions the necessity for, or the success of, the Telecom-Eircom switch.

Indeed, the Eircom experience was one of the reasons behind the greyhound syndicate's decision to re-brand the dog; a move completed this week in controversial circumstances.

The syndicate bought its latest greyhound earlier this year in a complex, but apparently legal, transaction that involved expanding the membership from 12 to 17 and getting the new members to pay for it; and, despite being named "Dr Evil", the new investment's prospects appeared good.

In the fast-moving economy that is greyhound racing, however, Dr Evil has been getting left behind. Regularly and sometimes by as much as 15 lengths. His performances have sometimes caused him to be renamed on an informal basis by watching backers. So the syndicate eventually decided that, as with Telecom, an official change of title might help reposition the dog in the marketplace.

Eircom would be quick to point out that its new name was only part of a process that involved generating dramatic internal change at the company. But generating dramatic internal change in a greyhound is still illegal, so we just hoped a different name would bring us luck. After a sometimes contentious process (there were the usual shareholders' criticism of the cost of re-branding) votes for the new title were counted after Wednesday night's meeting in Shelbourne Park.

The meeting highlighted the need for action. Dr Evil was running (but only just) in the eighth race, and if he'd been any slower he'd have been running in the ninth as well. Normally, there's a short period of suspense about the outcome of a race: your dog is usually in with a chance up to the first bend, where he typically veers off the rails and attempts a corporate merger with one of the other competitors, knocking them both out. But we didn't even have that excitement on Wednesday. Last out of the traps, our hero held that position bravely until, ever the showman, staging a late sprint to grab fifth. So much for the theory that for "Evil" to triumph, it was necessary only that good men fail to speak: we tried staying silent throughout the race, and not even that worked.

Back in the pub we got on with the process of giving the dog the snappy, forward-looking new name. There had been no shortage of nominations, ranging from puns on the syndicate's title (Fior Gael) to the more abstract, and downright off-the-wall.

In the former vein, my suggestion was "Gael Force", which sounds like a Riverdance spin-off, but which is the sort of thing that appeals to Americans, to whom we may sell shares eventually. More frivolous nominations included "Creeping Jesus"; while, worryingly, an Irish grammarian tendency had emerged from the membership in support of calling the dog after one or other of its favourite tenses: An Modh Coinnialach or An Tuiseal Ginideach.

The argument in favour of the first name was that the conditional tense dominated many of the post-race discussions about the dog. For example, "He would have won if the ground had suited him better, which it would have if it had opened up and swallowed the other dogs". But, as far as one could tell, the grammarian faction appeared confined to those educated by the Christian Brothers and who hadn't received counselling.

Unfortunately, this was more than enough to ensure An Modh Coinnialach topped the poll on the first count. As the less popular candidates were eliminated, two interesting factors emerged. Creeping Jesus was taking transfers from all over the place, so that by the fourth count it had drawn level. But also, the grammarians had a party machine.

With the discipline beaten into them at school, they voted 1-2 for the tenses - eliminating An Tuiseal Ginideach. Its transfers pushed An Modh Coinniolach over the quota.

So there it is. We now have a dog named after a grammatical tense, and not even the future one. Some of us believe that the new name will do as much to improve his chances as a serious leg injury.

But not being called Dr Evil may have advanced his retirement options outside the sport - one of which could be a guard dog. He might not be quick enough to catch today's fast-moving burglars, but if you already have an alarm system, he'd be good back-up. He has a lot of experience in that position.

Frank McNally can be contacted at: fmcnally@irish-times.ie